


Liz's Half-Assed Birthday Gift Oneshots

by BandersnatchKiddo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, character switch, one shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BandersnatchKiddo/pseuds/BandersnatchKiddo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection cut short of one shots for tumblr user imaginehanniballecter. Was originally going to include more than ten, but due to unforeseen circumstances, has been drastically cut to three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hannibal the Sugar Daddy

It all started when Will Graham stepped out of his shower and shrouded his waist with a lush new towel. At first he relished the sensation of it- all of his other older towels were no longer soft and fluffy, and their absorbency was steadily decreasing. The new set of towels floating around his house were of top grade material and would last far longer than the generic department store ones he originally bought. 

How nice of Hannibal to purchase those towels for him.

It was then, when that thought flittered through his mind momentarily, the ball began to roll. This ball was his mental turmoil. He stepped out of the foggy environment that was his bathroom and, upon finishing drying himself, tossed it onto the bed. There he noticed something else- the bedspread was also bought by Hannibal. It was a fine quality with a thread count he didn't think was possible and was well above his budget.

He shrugged it off and changed into pajamas. His old pair had been sweatpants and a tee shirt. After he started sweating in his sleep, it was just boxers and a tee. Later on, he had acquired an ergonomic and seemingly space-age He straightened up in abject horror as he remembered that Hannibal had bought him these clothes. With shaking hands, he removed the clothes off of him and tossed them onto the bed, next to his towel. Towel, pajamas, bedspread.

Towel, pajamas, bedspread.  
Towel, pajamas, bedspread.  
Towel, pajamas, bedspread. 

All from Hannibal. 

He ran his hands in his hair, tugging at it, grabbing for some semblance of rationality. His hair was wet and coming out in his hands by the force he was gripping it with. He laid them by his side and breathed deeply, slowly, as Alana had taught him. His eyes fluttered close and he began taking small, delicate steps out of his bedroom. His dogs met him in the hallway and were licking at his hands, failing to detect his inner distress. Will groped around his couch for his previously discarded pants and put them on. Having calmed down enough, he opened his eyes. He realized the pants he was putting on were bought by Hannibal. He hurriedly grabbed his shirt and jacket, items he knew were bought by him and him alone, and rushed from the door, intent on confronting this situation.  
Will slid behind the steering wheel and into the driver's seat, keys from his jacket pocket fumbling into the ignition. He noticed the brand name printed on the key, and his view of the car's interior gradually expanded to the entire steering wheel and dashboard. This car was new and foreign. This car was bought by Hannibal. He practically kicked the driver's door open and dry heaved to the side. Moments later, he climbed back in, started the vehicle, and sped off. His hair, still damp, clung to the back seat, and he had the subconscious desire to scoot forward so as not to get the fine material wet. 

*

Excessive knocking pervaded the stillness of the household, disrupting the sound waves of opera. Hannibal's steps towards the foyer could've been described in the greatest of details, like the Veiled Virgin in its finesse. Quiet, quick, graceful- a ballet on mute, tamed and restrained into the actions of a cannibalistic psychiatrist. Mild irritation in his mannerisms were overrun with a seeping, thick delight when he found that Will was standing on the other side of the door. He granted entry into the household. 

"Hello, Will. What brings you so far from home at such a late time?" he asked, analyzing the flustered and wide-eyed behavior. 

"Um- some things- something is- I d-don't-" he was cut off by Hannibal placing his hand on his right cheek and his other hand along his forehead. 

"Do you know who you are? Do you know where you are?" 

"Will Graham, in Baltimore, Maryland, at your office. Stop that," he said, batting Hannibal's hands away. 

"You don't seem to be running a fever. Please, make yourself comfortable," he removed the wreck of a man's jacket and placed it on the coat hanger then guiding his younger partner to the drawing room where opera flowed from. 

"I'm not sick, not right now." 

"What seems to be troubling you, my dear Will?" he asked curiously, taking a seat on the couch. His hand moved to pat the seat next to him, a summons for the younger man to take it. He rejected the offer by sitting  
opposite of him. 

"I noticed something. Earlier." 

Hannibal waited patiently for Will to elaborate. 

"Um...my blankets and sheets. Pillow cases. My towels. My night clothes. My- my car. These pants, Hannibal." 

"Are they not satisfactory?" 

"Y-you did- you bought me all of this. I don't- I don't-" 

"Oh, Will," he cooed, moving from his seat to the one next to Will. An arm snaked around his waist in an effort to comfort. In normal circumstances, it would have, but Will's enlightenment filtered the gesture as obscene and bone chilling. 

"No. I want to know why you're buying all of this." 

"I am your friend. I want to make sure you're taken care of." 

"I was well off without the Bentley and Prada pants!" 

"Those are Armani, Will. I don't believe Prada makes such apparel, but I can find out. If you-" 

"Stop it!" 

Hannibal looked taken aback by Will's outburst, but was more so incensed by being so rudely cut off. Will saw the dark maroon rage in his eyes as he lifted an eyebrow, his body language daring him to say one more thing without an apology. Will's mouth opened, wanting to apologize and receive the almost holy forgiveness, but his throat had tightened too much to speak. His lips quivered in nervousness and fear, a fear that he did not understand and was even afraid of. A humiliating whimper escaped the distressed profiler. His throat opened up enough for him to whisper an apology. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in when he saw Hannibal's features soften. 

"That's quite alright, Will. If I had known it upset you so much, I would never have done so. You know you're comfort is among my top priorities, I thought I was aiding it. I apologize for causing you distress." 

"No, I... it's fine. I was just confused... I still am. I don't know why you go out of your way to buy me things that extravagant," he shrugged, avoiding his gaze. He bit back, realizing that perhaps all those gifts weren't so extravagant to him. 

"It's no expense to me, Will- there is no price on providing you with comfort." 

Will tugged at the sleeve of his sordid jacket in sheepish appreciation and discomfort. 

"That reminds me," he began, standing, "I have something for you. I'd rather you try it on here so I may see if they fit appropriately or not. That is, if you do not mind another gift?" 

"No, no, I don't mind." 

*

"I'm sure they fit fine, Hannibal," Will groaned sleepily from the bathroom. 

"One can't be too sure. After all, these are not what you normally, purchase, no? They're meant to fit differently than Fruit of the Loom." 

"...Fine." With that, he opened the door and stepped out in his self conscious quaintness. He stood before Hannibal in Emporia Armani boxer briefs. 

Hannibal smiled and took slow, deliberate steps towards him. Will looked down and away from the older psychiatrist, embarrassed at being so underdressed in his home. He bolted away from Hannibal when he felt his fingers work under the band. 

"What the hell are you doing?!" 

"It's the accurate way to measure size. I'm merely seeing if they need to be fitted more along the waist. They seem to fit well enough. You may get dressed now," he nodded to him, turning away. There was a quick rustle of clothing further behind him in the bathroom, the tiles filtering the noise into hollow reminders of how much skin was exposed earlier. Hannibal smiled to himself. 

"I should get going." 

"I'm not so sure that it a good idea, Will. It's very early in the morning, your sleep cycle has been ruptured by the energy exerted by driving here in your...temper. You should stay here for the night. I have a guest bedroom upstairs." 

"I should really get back to my dogs, and I don't think I locked the door behind me." 

"If there is anything of value removed from your household then I will replace it. Domesticated canines can last for three days without proper nutrients at the very least. They will be fine on their own for a day- tomorrow morning I will call Alana and explain the situation, I'm sure she'll be more than agreeable to feeding them and locking the door." 

"...Alright..." Will nodded, feeling as though his freedom to choose otherwise was stripped from him.


	2. Alanabal the Cannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alana is Hannibal and Abigail is Will.

"I'm sorry I wasn't available to pick you up today, Abigail, but my patients can not be rescheduled mid session." 

"Oh, no, it's fine," the modish college student shrugged casually, brushing the occurrence off. 

"I am preparing an Italian dish, reminiscent of how renaissance marquises dined," Dr. Bloom explained self satisfyingly, whilst delicately maneuvering a knife along a mushroom. 

"That sounds delightful. Are Will and Dr. Lecter coming?" 

"I'm hesitant to say whether the two will be joining us. Dr. Lecter expressed an interest in attending, but I don't think Will is feeling up to par tonight. Hopefully the former of the two will call ahead of time," she drawled. 

"May I use your study, Alana? Jack gave me the extra files on the case, and I really need to go over them." 

"Of course," she smiled, absentmindedly stirring an elaborate gravy. "I'll alert you when the meal is ready." 

"Thanks!" Abigail smiled, trotting off into the depths of the house. 

She was a bright young girl, recently enrolled in Stratford, and the best profiler the BAU had ever had since the branch was founded in the first place. Jack Crawford, the head of the operations, had tapped her into service when recent murders arose, many of them sharing factors. She had an exciting future ahead of her, riddled with an ambiguous psychosis. This ambiguous psychosis was the reason she was as skilled as she was in the field of behavioral analysis. 

So she had a psychiatrist to keep her on a figurative leash. 

Dr. Alana Bloom was the epitome of finesse in all aspects of the cultured life. She dressed in the very best- Emporio Armani for sunny, warm days, Albert Nipon for the soggy and miserable dark days with high humidity. She corked her own wine when she wasn't in the mood for the aged French and Italian brands in her cellar. Everything she purchased was organic. Alana was seemingly the perfect human being, the pinnacle of humanity's achievements. This is how she appeared to everyone. However, nobody is perfect, and Alana is either far from it or the closest of all. The body and blood of Christ remained body and blood upon consumption. 

The two had a relationship built on Abigail's original mistrust and Alana's ability to charm even the most demure and dubious people into conversation. Whether the good doctor favored their conversation was the crucial factor on if she ever bothered to unravel their reluctance again. Her interest had never been quite as piqued before as with Abigail Hobbs, the young prodigy, the troubled virtuoso. Her interest quickly developed into something more, something darker, and something that would undoubtedly end unwell for both parties. 

Alana never cared much for tossing a fun evening because of the consequences of the morning after. Her relationship with Abigail was an extension of this. 

When dinner had been prepared, she took two glasses of red wine to accompany her on her walk to the study. Plans had been mapped out for this night- crafted precisely, down to every drop of alcohol used in their glasses, and to the outfit she wore. The inflections in her voice and her facial expressions were perfectly rehearsed until she knew exactly what to do to manipulate the scenario to her will. Then again, she always did. 

"Abigail," she called softly from the threshold of the study. The young girl looked up expectantly. "Dinner is ready. I've prepared Filetto Di Bue Campagnola with a bottle of Clos de Tart, circa 2009." 

"You know I don't drink," she smiled, standing from her place and following the older woman to the dining room. 

"You've said so before, but I still haven't abandoned hope that you'll take part with me. This bottle is very valuable, and I shouldn't let you leave without one glass. It truly is a wonderful beverage. The skill and time that goes into perfecting a bottle of Pinot Noir such as this would be the equivalent of painting a replica of the Mona Lisa. You consume the artwork and it forever joins you," Alana explained, pulling the chair out for the younger one. 

She ventured to the kitchen, receiving the dishes with a careful embrace at arm's length and escorted them to the table- one in front of Abigail, one for her seat. Instead of filling her glass with water, she filled it with the specially picked bottle. It's essence, red as deoxygenated blood, but not quite as thick. 

"I substituted the recipes filet of beef with lamb. It is stuffed with goat cheese, on a bed of sautéed oyster mushrooms, mashed Yukon Golds, and segmented asparagus stalks- prepared to a soft texture," she took her seat and poured her own glass. She extended it in the air- an offering for a toast. 

"Join me, Abigail. I insist." 

Abigail smiled and a blush formed on her face. She must've been completely unaware of it, as she was unaware of the hidden meaning behind Alana's words. There was always a secret meaning to them, anyway. 

She relished in irony; it was an exciting feat to essentially tell the people around her what she was doing and what she had planned for them, and they would laugh and nod and continue on their way. Like sheep, really. Just as Abigail was being. 

Abigail raised her glass and the two met with a crisp clang. 

"Okay, okay. You've tempted me." 

Alana's smile grew as she watched the unobservant Abigail sip her share. 

"Artful matrimony, yes?" 

Abigail nodded as she took another sip. 

Seducing the younger woman into divulging in what could represent the apple of Eden left Alana satisfied, enough so to not pressure the situation into unfolding yet. They sat and ate merrily, both reserved in comfort. 

*

"So," Alana began, seated and comfortable in the drawing room, "you never told me how you favored the wine. You must have, this is your fourth glass." 

"I love it. Love it. Thank you." 

Abigail plopped down on the seat cushion next to the older woman, careful not to spill a sacred drop. She reeled her head back and grinned animatedly at Alana before rested her head carefully on Alana's shoulder. 

"I can't let you go home tonight." 

"Don't let me go home." 

"It'd be irresponsible of me to let you leave while as intoxicated as you are. I know my limits, I am not in the best position to be driving, either." 

Alana was well aware of Abigail's home arrangements. She lived by herself in a small apartment just off of college ground. She did have a roommate, a perky but intolerable girl named Trish, though she had been taken care of in the midst of a recent case. Abigail had never quite gotten over Trish's death. Instead of grieving it out and moving on, she preferred to let it remain as a constant reminder of her duty. 

It was also a good excuse to live alone. 

"I need to get the files," she suddenly announced, placing the glass on the table and theatrically standing. 

"Why?" 

"So they're ready when I leave." 

"Perhaps you should let the case evade you for tonight. Come," she beckoned, gesturing to the seat she once occupied. 

Abigail resumed sitting in her spot, except this time she had picked her feet up onto the cushion with her and cuddled into a ball against Alana. She feigned surprise, but returned the alcohol-induced affection with stroking of the hair. 

"I like being here." 

Alana closed the space between them by resting her cheek against Abigail's head. 

"You're not like a mother to me, you know," she stated with a slight bitterness. 

"I'm glad. I was never the motherly type." 

Abigail turned to face Alana. There was static tension combusting and spreading like food coloring in an ocean, all of which was between them. Abigail knew what she wanted to do, Alana knew what Abigail wanted to do, which was essentially what Alana wanted all along. She had carved and sculpted this evening to cater to that scenario- this scenario. And now it was all in Abigail's hands. She could resist and lay back down, possibly drift to sleep, or she could take what she wanted- a kiss, and see what happened. What a curious girl. Curiosity killed the cat. 

But satisfaction brought it back. 

Abigail leaned in for a meek kiss, and though a little bit of her died on impact due to the fear of being rejected and soiling their relationship, the night's worth of satisfaction brought her back.


	3. Will, Cat Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will owns seven cats instead of dogs.

Hannibal inserted a small IV in his reserves of energy and focus and began to work on a masterpiece. Alana had gone home, denying a meal in her state of mute peril, and leaving the cannibal to wait alone for his next guest. This did not begrudge him in any way, solitude was always a treat seldom appreciated in the modern world. And so, he began to craft with his ingredients- a slave to his design. 

Like Will. 

Hannibal smiled at the thought- lately he had taken to Will's 'this is my design' phrase. At every case, every time he enacted his absolutely stunning ability, he would hear it. This is my design, this is my design, this is my design. Whenever Hannibal heard it, a flutter of anticipatory glee would rattle in his chest. Behind his sternum. There, it rang and echoed. This is my design, this is my design, this is my design. Every time it resounded inside of him, it would grow louder, clearer, until it was an HD maximum volume repetition, and never would he hide the smile that it brought upon his face. 

The meal had been finished in no time thanks to a method of slow preparation. It had simmered in its own sauce, a quick little cheat he would take in the event a guest would be arriving shortly. Will would be joining shortly. Normally, considering how close their relationship had become, he would be spending his time crafting well into Will's arrival. He knew the empath liked watching him cook. 

Cooking was art, it was more than a duty to feed oneself, it was a way to release all the negativity in the human body and replace it with good. Will would sit on a bar stool and watch him in a trance, almost as if the motions were hypnotizing. Then, seeing the glaze in his eyes, he knew that Will was channeling the same mental cleansings Hannibal was experiencing. And soon, when the meal was finished and digested, he would experience the physical cleansings as well. Although, if he knew the ingredients, perhaps it wouldn't quite feel that way to the young profiler. 

Tonight, Will would not watch the artist craft. It was going to be a special night. A different night. The dishes were finished, the table was set. Wine glasses stood expectantly, awaiting fluid of life and death. Tonight it would mean life. 

Will came in, smirking, hands in pockets, glancing around. He gave Hannibal a once over, one that the doctor returned more subtly. 

"Looks nice, Hannibal. What have you prepared for us on the oh so fine night?" he inquired sarcastically. As if on cue in a cliché horror movie, thunder followed his words. The windows lit up with lightning and illuminated their faces beyond what the dim lighting was capable of. 

Hannibal smiled and pulled a chair out, which Will took without an ounce of appreciation. Usually, if anyone had showed him the kind of tame disrespect Will showed everyone, Hannibal would have them for a dinner party. However, it proved to be quite endearing. He knew Will was more than capable of showing kindness and respect, moreso than other people, however, he had simply chosen not to use it. An interesting cocktail of a childhood spent being wronged, horrors of humanity, and a general life of dissatisfaction. Giving everything he has and getting nothing in return. He could afford to keep his manners on reserve. No wonder he preferred the company of his cats. 

All seven of them. 

"I've prepared Filetto Di Bue Campagnola with a bottle of Clos de Tart, circa 2009." 

Will raised his eyes, impressed. 

"Bon appetite." 

*

"Oh, please, Dr. Chilton probably cuts holes in the pages of his medical journals to hide his porn in. He's a disgusting little man," he cooed, swirling his drink in the glass. 

"Oh, but dear Will, he has suffered greatly. Surely such crass comments can wait until he has healed?" 

"Why? He survived, didn't he?" 

Hannibal smirked at the dark excuse and set down his glass. 

"Will, we must discuss your...signature disrespect." 

"Must we?" he grimaced, setting his wine glass down as well. 

"It's not very...endearing of you," he lied, "shall we say." 

"I don't need to be endearing!" he laughed, "I don't care if anyone finds me endearing! I don't need anyone to." 

"Except your cats, Will?" 

Will sat, fuming. His tension and levels of discomfort rose so dramatically in such a small time frame that it was almost awkward. he began to fidget, Hannibal could tell he was debating whether or not to get up and leave. He eyed his Adam's apple bob up and down as he held back a sob. And then, the words slipped out. 

"Fuck you, Hannibal," he whispered shakily. 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"F-Fuck..." he choked, "…y-" 

Hannibal stood abruptly and took startlingly long and quick strides towards the young profiler. Will didn’t have time to get up, only being spared enough time to push his chair back. The cannibal wordlessly straddled Will in his seat and gripped his face, forcing him to stare at him. 

"G-Get off, get off, get- OFF, GET OFF, GET OFF, GE-" 

Hannibal delivered a harsh slap. 

"You dislike this close proximity because it is not normal for you, you are used to people spacing themselves away from you so they don't catch the horror you are aware of. You are frightened because I am violating the custom as well as in a position you have never experienced before, and assume is sexual. You are also now frightened into silence from my striking you. Will, there is no need to be scared right now. I only hit you in order to calm you." 

Silence, sans for Will's heavy breathing. 

"Why are you on top of me, though." 

"Your inappropriate language, William. I will not tolerate it. I have been nothing but patient and kind in all of our interactions because I care about you. All of you. I would assume you would return basic politeness, but I stand corrected." 

Something became unhinged inside Will, and what looked like lust welled up inside of him. 

"I'm sorry, but no. I'm not changing anything." 

"Then I will," Hannibal declared. In one swift gesture, he stood and scooped the profiler into his arms. The dining room was left behind, and they slowly ascended the stairs. 

"Well, shit, Hannibal, I didn't know you were into that kind of thing," Will snickered, finding himself liking the direction it was going. 

* 

"You've outdone yourself again, Hannibal," Alana smirked into her wine glass, fluttering her eyes between her the liquid and him. playful flirtation often exchanged between the two. Hannibal smiled and thanked her. 

"Although, I must give credit to Will for setting up the table. It was very kind of him." 

Will smiled kindly and resumed eating. 

"Really? You, Will? You're such a cat person, I figured you would've let him do all the work and watch lazily from the sidelines," Jack chuckled. 

"Well, I'm trying to be more adept with my manners. Part of a deal, I should say." 

"And what kind of deal is that?" 

Will glanced at Hannibal. 

"That's doctor-patient confidentiality."


End file.
